


so sinks the day-star

by auxanges



Series: the nothing kings [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Anal Sex, Helmsman Sex, Helmstroll Sollux Captor, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 16:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15271779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: youre alriight, DK. your patdown2 could u2e a couple poiinter2 but ii wiill have leniiency on account of your biiology.It’s either a fucking blessing or a double-fucking curse, that your self-awareness about what weird shit has the potential to do for you is nigh tangible enough that the comment on biology settles along with the warmth already in your stupid core. What the hell is wrong with you? A sizeable grocery list of things, probably. Definitely. But as you take in the edges and planes of Sollux’s body, the way Eridan stands perfectly still save for the slow drag of his eyes from your hips to your shoulders, and think maybe the rightness bar in the engine block is low enough for you.You say, “I’m a fast learner.”Sollux’s mouth splits again, into a fuck-ugly grin that tightens your pants and grounds your lingering self-doubt into stardust.





	so sinks the day-star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Shame_Basement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shame_Basement/gifts).



> Prompt:  
> OH WOW OKAY HEAR ME OUT. as inspired by Dirty Talk and a Well-Lubed Starship by Aewin (https://archiveofourown.org/works/7365928), Dirk's a helmsblock technician (or just human captive/worker of some kind) on a starship where Sollux is the helm and Eridan's an officer. Give me uniform kinks, give me creative and kinky cross-species alien bullshit, give me the oddly poignant situation of Sollux being helmed and simultaneously despising and loving it, give me angst and drama and maybe a little plot, but most of all, give me impeccably-written snark and banter from three of the most dramatic characters Homestuck has to offer. Feel free to handle Sollux being helmed however you prefer– maybe he's trapped in there, maybe he can come out, maybe he has to interact solely through text and the ship! (please keep his physical body mostly intact though.)  
> Bonus points for Startlingly Buff Eridan, and extra bonus points for Dirk's nipples being super sensitive!  
> *  
> this prompt severed my spine in seven places and i had to put it back together like a jigsaw puzzle  
> thank you for participating!

Day and night do not technically exist in the current swell of space you’re hauling ass through: even if they did, it wouldn’t really matter to your insomniac gremlin of a body. On a good day (the term, again, employed in the loosest of connotations you allow yourself) you log four, maybe five hours of shuteye before your alarm or some other outside force jostles you out of bed.

They take drugs to sleep, the trolls. When you were first assigned here, they gave you patches of green, luminescent slime that fuzzed your brain too much for comfort. You prefer sobriety—it’s ensured your survival this long. Word was passed up the alien chain of alien command, and your alien room was instead fitted with what you could only describe as an alien futon.

Any remaining IKEA back home has been submerged 500 feet below sea level for well over a century before you were born, so you guess this is the next best thing. After initial debriefs upon your arrival, which had involved varying degrees of manhandling (and varying degrees of existential crises), you were actually exhausted enough that you slept right there on the floor. You take upgrades where you can.

* * *

 

At last count, it’s been around six months since Intake. This is the fun little clinical term you’ve adopted for your seizure from Annexation Planet Class B-7713 location code 000-AUSTIN. You don’t know if they found anyone else; you don’t know whether to hope they did.

You were processed aboard this ship, but they still haven’t given you its classified name. The crew call it the Box—a massive complex of barracks and armouries and shit you can’t even begin to pick apart, with huge windowpanes and covers that roll slowly shut when the Box drifts past a star. Inside, the lights are dim as a darkroom, which suits you just fine.

When they broke into your house and pointed charging weapons at you, employment had not been at the forefront of your priorities. (Dying a depressed virgin hadn’t _really_ been there, either, but would it really be a _you_ experience if you hadn’t thought it at all?) One of the trolls had prodded an old project of yours and relayed something in a language you knew fuck-all about before asking, “What else can you do, human?”

So bam. Here you are, exchanging your services for the low, low price of not being ejected into the soundless vacuum of space.

It sucks a lot less than it could.

* * *

 

You’ve been up for about an hour when they call you to the engine room. Not busy, not really, just killing time staring at the wall and wondering exactly how the fuck you got here. Your life on Earth hadn’t exactly been riveting, but you’d known what everything did, where everything was.

(Well, not where _everything_ was. You were so foolishly focused looking up and out for the ships that had vanished years ago that you didn’t consider, maybe, looking down, down for the ones that had stayed there.)

“Dirk Strider to rig.”

The speaker over your head is tinny, or maybe that’s just the troll’s voice. No one here is very good at pronouncing your name—“Dirrik” in the med bay, “Ddrirk” in the galley—but part of you is still so unused to having to respond to another living soul in general that you barely register the difference half the time you realize you’re being addressed.

The engine room can get messy, depending on what you’re being called in for, so you throw on a white tank top you were brought aboard wearing, along with the uniform pants you were issued after you were stripped and sprayed down (like you said, a real riff on the ol’ introspective shitsymphony that is your life). The black fabric of the pants seems universal, but as you shuffle through the bowels of the Box you spot the differences: the thick line of colour along the outer seam varies from troll to troll, shades of blue and turquoise and purple like a crew of aging bruises. Your own piping is an obnoxious shade of pink that tickles at your memory.

It also has the unfortunate effect of making trolls stare at you—more than they might have beforehand, anyway. Genetics really did you dirty, but the notion that informing the gawking workers that you’re not par for the people course may be a little unwise keeps your mouth shut. The crew itself has recently shifted: a handful of weeks after Intake some excursion went sideways, and most of the high-ranking (if your colour theory checks out) officials were, in layman’s terms, blown to pieces. The Box picked up a fresh set of commissioned officers at the next spaceport.

During docks you check on the rig, fiddling with cooling fans and running troubleshoots of the biowires. Sometimes, you have to trim or untangle them: you’d run out of the engine room to puke the first two times you’d had to feel for dead wires among thick, living things—

* * *

 

You prick your finger on the door clearance panel and suck on the blood that wells up. The omnipresent pulse that hides in the walls of the Box is a little louder here, with the hum of the machines as harmonics you’re a little more familiar with.

“Okay,” you murmur to yourself, “what’s the damage?”

The first encounter you ever had with the pilot, your legs were still unsteady from learning space travel and you were still being dragged around by a blue-stripe on the worst and only field trip of your life. It had scared you shitless, the sight—the body held aloft by slowly writing coils of wires, the way they twined around his limbs almost...protectively. Lovingly.

The fact that it was a “him.”

You still don’t really know what to do when you work here, so you stick to what you _do_ know: your job. Learning quickly is a useful skill in your arsenal—one of the only useful ones you have, probably, unless your travels land the Box in a freestyling competition on tween equestrian literature.

You set the terminal to scan for anomalies and try to roll up sleeves you temporarily forget aren’t there, and start a primary survey.

The pilot, beneath all the freaky-deaky wire bullshit, does not look old. It had struck you, how close in age some trolls resembled your own twenty-six. No one had really been around to prepare you for the possibility that your invaders might be...well, kids. There are no visible signs of war, like on some of the other crew members: around the frames of his goggles, you see strange little cracks in the skin, like he’s coming apart at the seams with whatever he’s being juiced for.

Your insensitivity may be a coping mechanism—it’s a troll you’re looking over, not an orange you’re prepping for breakfast like they did on old commercials. After your stomach had settled, you’d inquired about the pilot. They gave you a bright magenta tablet that blared a ten-minute propaganda video on THE JUST AND HONOURABLE CAREER OF HELMSMEN, A THREE-PART DOCUMENTERRORY WITH BONUS MUSIC VIDEO.

You’re no expert, but you would not have picked those adjectives to describe the procedure. (The music video was pretty dope, though.)

Gently turning one of his outstretched arms, you palpate the skin at the juncture of the biowires, checking for blood flow and dead bits of troll or rigging. It’s more or less a formality: after a couple months of familiarizing yourself with the fixtures, you had fiddled with the existing tech, prying it open and putting it back together, with your adjustments until it spat more comprehensive readings back at you. After all, it’s what they’re keeping you for, isn’t it?

You are clinical, again, either out of necessity or out of habit. Touch, human or troll, is not even in the ballpark of your expertise—it might as well all be alien to you. You check the wires at his back, giving the winking steel of his implanted spine a once-over for detritus. The pilot’s hair tickles your jaw, and you kind of twitch.

The terminal beeps, and you poke your head out from behind the pilot to squint at the readings. Output’s a little high: the wires have difficulty keeping up. This is what they told you anyway—turns out this helmsman’s only been aboard some two years before your Intake. “Stronger than the last one.” When you’d asked what had happened to the last one, they’d just laughed and shaken their heads.

You’ve finished checking the other arm and are transferring a runaway wire that’s started winding around his thigh when the engine room door hisses open again. “Maintenance,” you call out, a little uncertainly, if only because no one really comes in here.

The officer looks up from sucking on his index, a black-and-violet replay of your earlier action.

You were never told what the proper salute what for ship seniority, so you just kinda jerk your chin in a _sup_ motion. He keeps his gaze on you, unblinking; if he’s fazed by your unbelievably chill social persona, it doesn’t show. “I didn’t realize it were occupied.”

Ampora—that’s his name, you’ve heard it hissed and murmured around the Box like the crew can’t decide whether it’s taboo. You give the biowire slowly constricting your hand a smack, and it finally detaches from the pilot’s thigh. “They called me down here,” you point out.

He nods, a tiny conceding movement that mostly involves his fins bowing. The dumb part of you wants to know what they feel like. “You’re the Castaway,” says Ampora, like it might differentiate you from all the other _homo_ -genus assholes running around the place.

You wipe your hand on your pants and reply, “Call me Dirk.”

“Dirk.” In the rolling timbre of the officer’s voice, your name almost sounds like what you’d envisioned. “Call me Eridan.”

“Thanks,” you say, which makes him let out a weird little trill of a laugh as he shrugs out of his jacket. It’s covered in bars, gold and silver and that shock of pink, and he drapes it over one of the screens displaying nutritional injection timelines. Beneath the black dress shirt he’s undoing the top few buttons of, you can see the ripple of swimmer’s muscles.

You’re only human. And a fucking weird one at that.

“What can I do for you,” you ask, tacking on an “Eridan” when you remember how two-way speech goes.

He blinks, like he doesn’t have an answer. You sympathize—you hate when that happens to you. “If I think of somethin I’ll let you know,” he answers finally. “The infantrepidation drills I oversee don’t start til GM-plus-three. I got time to kill.”

(You passed one of those drills before. Of all the nightmarish trolls that had burst into your house guns blazing, you’re relieved Eridan Ampora hadn’t been one of them.) You raise one shoulder. “Fine by me.”

“Course it is. It’s my ship, innit?” Eridan does not wait for you to decipher his tone before turning his attention to the terminal, still dutifully pumping out vitals. “This new?”

“As of last month,” you confirm, feeling neither pride nor fear. You tinker, that’s what you do.

Eridan’s fingers twitch as he does the alien chronology math in his head. “An you installed it yourself.”

“I would have earlier, but the rig was diverting so much power to siphoning the pilot that I had to dick around with the calibrations first.” Are you allowed to say “dick” in front of his rank?

“That seems like a fuckload of effort,” he replies, which answers your hypothetical (and kinda warms you up to the guy).

Your other shoulder joins the first. “Worth the productivity increase. And it’s not like I have much else to do around here.”

Eridan makes that dry laughing sound again, fins tipping back as he reads the garish orange text of the program you orchestrated:

Permanent Rig Optimization for Psionic Helmsman Exploitation Technology

“PROPHET.”

Your ears choose now to start burning. “Acronyms are algorithmic Pringles. Once you pop, as they say.”

He turns back to look at you silently again. His eyes are a deep orchid colour, his pupils thin in the lights of the screens. Then he says, at a volume just high enough to make you jump, “How much did you pay him to name it that?”

Confused, you start, “Look, I know you have a troll pension or whatever, but no one actually p—”

The familiar, disjointed acoustics of artificial voice stutter free of the walls.

yeah lmao liike ii would giive you 2uch low hangiing fruiit two iineviitably and me22iily choke on.

“Uh,” you say, because this is a new and startling development, and you were under the impression that you were fresh out of those aboard the Box.  

Eridan leans his weight on one leg, looking a lot less like an officer and a lot more...comfortable. Younger. “Like you don’t spend sleep mode thinkin up awful one-liners that’ll fry your circuits before one a them is actually funny.”

you thiink thi2 thiing actually ha2 a 2leep mode?? that2 way more hiilariiou2 than anythiing ii could have come up wiith, lemme recalculate our trajectory real quiick 2o we can 2ee iif hell ha2 truly frozen over. 

“Uh?” You try again. Recycled oxygen must finally have caused damage to your Broca’s area, and now you’re just gonna communicate in vocal question marks for the rest of your life.

Ampora reaches at nothing, and a thin standard-issue flashlight pops into existence. Your modus had been confiscated on Intake; you have to use pockets like some barbarian. “Somethin you wanna share with the class?” he asks, twirling the flashlight between his fingers as he steps toward the pilot.

You obligingly shimmy out of the way, rubbing your jaw with one hand. “No, I just, uh. The program I tweaked before adding my own didn’t show any AI optimization—”

“Sollux isn’t AI,” Eridan interrupts, “I’d even reckon normal intelligence is a bit of a contested point.”

wow, ziinger. 

“Sollux,” you repeat, glancing at the inert body of the pilot.

iincredible, the valiidatiion of my iidentiity from the aliien who 2emiiregularly get2 two 2econd ba2e wiith my woefully emaciiated fle2h prii2on ii2 2iimply 2kyrocketiing my 2elf-e2teem. we could galaxy-hop on my current god complex alone. 

Belatedly, you recognize the hollow drone of his voice. It isn’t the speaker’s big picture so much as a layer of it—a bored, almost tired undertone in the dissonant announcements officers must type manually into the Box’s system. You shove down a wave of unwelcome vertigo and aim instead for aloof. “None of the files mentioned pilots had attitude.”

they diidnt mentiion my off-the-chart2 2ex appeal eiither, iim gue22iing. 

Eridan snorts as he carefully lifts the pilot’s—Sollux’s—goggles into his hair. The cracks you had spotted earlier are gathered closer together at the corners of his eyes: without shit obstructing your view of them, you can see how bottomless they appear, the cool glow that bleeds into the scar tissue, redbluered.

The flashlight click-clicks to life; Eridan splays his fingers against Sollux’s cheekbone, framing his brow with two of his digits as he shines the beam in the eye that reminds you of your own blood. Little flares in the sclera reveal depth, like jewels set into his sockets, and Eridan’s mouth twitches as a reflexive spark isn’t rerouted by the biowires.

It’s not part of your routine checks. No, this is...it’s a strange play on intimacy that you selfishly commit to memory. Your earlier vertigo is replaced with warmth.

You watch, mystified, until another little switch goes off in your brain, the one that constantly demands every solution to every problem. “Hold up. I’ve been aboard for—”

“Since the apex perigee of the dim season,” Eridan supplies.

“—yeah, sure, that. That’s plenty of time for scintillating character exposition. Any particular reason why you didn’t inform me you could talk?”

The corners of Sollux’s mouth curl unevenly upwards in slow, jerky movements, and he rasps, “You never asked.”

* * *

 

There is a cold hand bunched in your tank top. You blink several times as your feet remember how to be solid; Eridan’s grip is unwavering, and very, very strong.

You haven’t been this unsteady since the eighth week you were here, and you forgot about your rations a little too long while you were working on PROPHET. God, but you’d love a hole to crawl into.

“Shut up,” Eridan says, directed at the airless rattle of clunky fangs behind him.

holy 2hiit ii wii2h ii could fuckiing repliicate the look on your face ju2t now. 

He finally lets you go, opting instead to bean Sollux on one curved horn with the flashlight before shifting to the other eye. “You are unbelievable. Chill the fuck out before you burst a vessel.”

aren’t ii tiickled goddamn tyriian that your 2en2e of humour ii2 2tiill akiin two a perpetually 2tarviing 2queakbea2t caught iin the 2poke2 of iit2 own recreatiional rotatiing deviice. a2 2uch thii2 may fly clear over your un2peakably toolii2h mug but.   
  
...  
  
...  
  
... ...

ii.

Eridan blows out a long breath that rustles his shirt. “Spit it out, I’m on a schedule.”

ii.  
  
AM.  
  
the ve22el.  
  


A little pixelated face blinks on the terminal between high pressure readings.

Your own laugh stuns your throat as it shudders its way free, like someone’s tased your voice box. Eridan’s fins do a little wave-flick motion.

youre alriight, DK. your patdown2 could u2e a couple poiinter2 but ii wiill have leniiency on account of your biiology.

It’s either a fucking blessing or a double-fucking curse, that your self-awareness about what weird shit has the potential to do for you is nigh tangible enough that the comment on biology settles along with the warmth already in your stupid core. What the hell is wrong with you? A sizeable grocery list of things, probably. Definitely. But as you take in the edges and planes of Sollux’s body, the way Eridan stands perfectly still save for the slow drag of his eyes from your hips to your shoulders, and think maybe the rightness bar in the engine block is low enough for you.

You say, “I’m a fast learner.”

Sollux’s mouth splits again, into a fuck-ugly grin that tightens your pants and grounds your lingering self-doubt into stardust.

* * *

 

When Eridan takes you by the wrist to show you where to touch Sollux you can feel his pulse in the thumb against your radius. Killer-slow, like his heart has to remind itself to pump blood every few seconds. Barring your surveys of the rig, this is the closest you’ve been to another troll since Intake. It’s also the most careful anyone has ever been with you—not like you’ll break, but more like...you don’t know. Like you’re seen.

Your hand lands on the pilot’s ribs, just beneath the taut cords of his triceps. Eridan coaxes you along the bumps and ridges of Sollux’s side, until you feel a knot at the shoulder. You’ve done this to yourself before: you dig your fingers in.

Sollux makes a creaky rusted noise that might be a groan. The hair at the back of your neck is at rigorous ungelled attention.

“Better already,” murmurs Eridan. You get the impression that he doesn’t speak much louder than you, when the uniform he wears doesn’t pry commands from him. Both thoughts are tucked away for later, along with the way that the praise does some funny shit to your lungs.

He guides your hand up the narrow expanse of Sollux’s chest. You find your second-ever troll heartbeat, a fair bit quicker than his counterpart. Your thumb and index find the dip above the base of his spine. The pilot wrenches out another moan.

You ask, just to avoid biting your lip, “Have you known each other long?”

Eridan gives a crooked nod. “We go back a ways, yeah. Our career paths were—predestined.”

ah, two be a fre2h fii2h on the herediitary fa2t track to AP murder camp.

He ignores Sollux. “I lost touch with most a my friends.” There’s a lilt to the word _friends_ that you can’t, in full confidence, attribute to his accent. “He’s one a the handful that popped back up on my grid. I pulled more than a couple sticky strings to even land in the same system as him before an official post on the Box.”

What a ragtag bunch of lonely motherfuckers you are. “Did you know him, before...?”

“Before he got plugged? I did.” A distant air, now, to the lingo; from the tiny ripple of tension under your hand, you guess it’s not particularly polite.

ii bleed ga2oliine, DK. ii already knew that way before we 2tarted 2hootiing the 2hiit. 2uck2 two 2uck, two quote troll john miilton.

(Later, when Eridan is touched down for some field mission and you’re sawing through a rogue wire, Sollux will tell you he tried to outrun it anyway. He’ll tell you it was a fool’s errand, but that that’s what he’d been anyway, a dumbass until they dragged him screaming from his crumbled hivestem.)

Your knuckles brush against his hair; it’s deceptively soft. “It does,” is all you can think to say, right now.

yeah, well. at lea2t ii have a red lob2ter e2capee two project all my problem2 ontwo.

“Which of us is sufferin more, I wonder,” Eridan muses, and then he leans forward to drag freakishly pointy fangs along Sollux’s throat.

Trolls, man.

The rig has him relatively close to the ground; free of the wires, Sollux would have a couple inches on you and Eridan. You wet your lips. “You’re a thing?”

“That,” says Eridan, glancing back at you with that look that invokes some unreal dickrobatics in your britches, “is classified.”

half the empiire ii2 black for ED. ii ju2t have the dii2plea2ure of calliing your human ‘diib2.’

More lingo. When you’d heard the colour thrown around the halls of the Box, the feed they had given you had been...well, you hadn’t clocked any hours of sleep that night. You manage, “I’d high-five you, if your limbs weren’t occupied.”

ha FUCKIING ha, you are all kiind2 of riiotou2.

You keep your own hands occupied, too—a few more sweeps through Sollux’s hair, over the shell of his ear to his temple. It flushes a golden hue. You feel unbelievably surreal.

Eridan’s stare prods at your nerves as you familiarize yourself with the prickles of static around the blue eye. “Can you see?” you ask, because you’re an endless well of poorly-timed questions.

2eeiing ii2 both overrated and exhau2tiing, 2o for the 2ake of 2iimpliiciity and vaguene22 iill 2ay ii 2ee 2hadow2 and leave iit at that.

Eridan rests his hand on your bare arm. You do not pull back. “What Sol is suddenly too insecure to say is that most batteries lose near all autonomy. They can’t speak, let alone see.”

The terminals let out a _whirrrrr_ that sounds an awful lot like a sigh.  ye2, thank you for clariifyiing my wiinniing tiicket iin the iimperiial 2hiit lottery where everythiing’2 made up and nothiing matter2.

You think of the jagged edges of his mouth, the box of nails living in his larynx. You think of the crew troll’s concession of _stronger than the last one_. How much stronger? Your urge to find out is waging war with the urge to find out something a lot more tactile. “So why talk at all now?”

“The reason for speech is twofold,” says Eridan, an up-kick to his tone that implies he’s mocking Sollux. “Number one—”

“Spite,” the pilot finishes. The very tip of his tongue pokes out between his teeth, a dark flash against the concrete shade of his skin. And you _get_ it, you understand Sollux with every fiber of your pathetic overachieving being. It tugs your fingertips over the dry arc of his mouth.

“And the second reason?” you breathe.

When Eridan grins, it’s an entirely different creature. “Because he knows I like it.”

His voice is a tempest, thick with what apparently passes universally as want. Your head is flooded with cotton balls. Sollux’s tongue meets the pad of your middle finger.

Behind you, the terminal beeps another high pressure reading, and the final stupid piece of the dumbfuck puzzle slides into place with a little cash register noise. The noise you make is more along the lines of a _hnnn_.

Your knowledge of kissing begins and ends at your Guardian’s movies, but your lips part anyway, eager to add another chip to your Extraterrestrial Boner Bingo. It feels—like nothing in particular, like something is missing. Maybe Sollux didn’t actually _want_ to do this and you’ve gone and ruined something that—

ED ii cannot beliieve iim goiing two 2ay thii2 but do me a favour and 2how thii2 tiiptoeiing 2ad2ack how two kii22.

Eridan’s hand closes around the back of your neck like the jaws of fucking death and he crushes his mouth to yours.

And that’s—yeah, you can simultaneously rock and roll with this—the scrape of his shark teeth along your bottom lip and the way his tongue laps at the swell he leaves there. You taste sea salt, familiar. You taste gunmetal.

He pulls back all too soon, the colour blown thin from his eyes like an eclipse to pool instead on his cheeks. You feel swallowed whole, in the fraction of breath you get before his grip maneuvers you flush against Sollux. His tongue slides against yours, all smug amusement, but the voice is silent. You must be kind of decent.

The hand at your neck is replaced by Eridan’s lips, and your whole body shivers. His laugh is cold against your burning skin.

“Touch him,” he commands, and you listen, stumbling over the dips of hipbones, of Sollux’s inner thighs. You’re barely surprised when he’s hard, your what-the-fuck meter has been bitch-slapped to Earth and back again. Your fingers instead find a discreet flap in his bodysuit, and you fumble at the fabric until it pulls back enough to—

“Oh,” you say, “my Jesus Christ.”

cla22iic.

Sollux snickers, and you bite his jaw before you can fucking think. One of his—his _things_ curls around the other, at that; your cock twitches, the traitor.

“Not in too deep, are you?” Eridan mouths at your shoulder.

“Not yet,” you somehow reply. Your voice has executed a lovely swan dive to join the husky octave of his check-in.

“Hah, nice.” He accepts your immature joke as consent, though, and hooks his digits in the waistband of your uniform pants. His own arousal presses against you, and you don’t _mean_ to push your hips back against it, it just, you know, it happens.

“If you’re also dual-wielding, let me know now so that I may die on the rig floor with some dignity,” you add as he unzips your fly.

This is somehow funny to him; his laugh is raspy like Sollux is using him as a megaphone. “Nah. My freakshow’s a different brand.”

Eridan shrugs off his suspenders, and they settle around his ass. You break away from Sollux’s face long enough for a peek: his uniform is snugly tailored, from the breathable black material over his sides to the slight heel of his boots. There’s ink just beneath the crater of his collarbone that you inexplicably want to run your tongue over.

You may die on the rig floor anyway, just for fun. But at least your previous “depressed virgin” descriptor will be (relatively) nullified.

He drops trou, and an appendage similar to what Sollux is sporting uncurls wetly and fuck, you are several kinds of nasty you had not even fathomed. Your face is probably somewhere between Bob the Tomato (banned as heresy in Fieri’s second term) and the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.

ii know. iit2 fuckiing pretty.

And Eridan’s admission of liking the sound of Sollux’s voice makes itself known—he draws in a ragged breath, his hands taking a trip up and under your tank top. You’re fucking boneless.

The cool touch of his fingers has your feverish skin reacting in ways even your most desperate wank fodder couldn’t really compare to. They’re steady as steel, slow over your ribs, like he’s mapping the differences between you and the pilot. The callous of his thumb traces your nipple, and you see stars.

that2 pretty, too.

Sollux’s package is staining the front of your pants, _alive_ and flushed a heady gold that has you wondering what it tastes like. You’re wondering so many goddamn things. You are Plato, and you have decided that actually, this cave sucks a fat one, let’s go outside and see what resides in skintight alien uniforms. Eridan’s moving, too, and your hands drop to your pants so fast you’re surprised you don’t accidentally rip off your dick. Your boxers are sticky with precome.

Your life is a hell of a thing.

“Alien bulge works about the same, don’t it?” Eridan still has that roughness about him, settled deep in his chest in a way that makes your cock jump again. You could die for entirely different reasons.

2ciientiifiic method, ED.

Eridan reaches the hand not tracing lazy circles around your nipple to explore you further. Your breath is making stupid noises on its way out of you, and you rut uselessly against his hand. He licks a wet stripe along your carotid.

“Huh,” he says, then, and you are struck silly with want, too dazed to think much of what could possibly be stranger about you than two bulges or whatever the fuck he was on about. It will remain a mystery, though, because he drags a finger from your base, between your damp thighs to your ass.

You invoke the whole fucking Trinity, really get your blasphemy on.

“There?” Eridan presses his finger against your entrance, just enough for you to smack your head against Sollux’s sternum, your hands like claws in his bodysuit.

“There,” you confirm, “oh my god, there, please there—”

“Wow,” says Eridan, and there’s something you almost recognize amid the churning desire in his voice. “Okay, yeah, I can fuck with that.”

The hand exploring you reaches further, sandwiching you between two trolls; Eridan does not hesitate or falter as he wraps a hand around one of Sollux’s bulges, giving a couple practiced pumps until his fingers are coated in vivid yellow. The pilot’s breath is audible.

Eridan trails his fingers back along your ass, cold-warm from the alien slurry, and your throat forgets how to make noise happen. When he pushes properly into you, you remember, very suddenly, and it escapes you in an embarrassing cry. His fins snap, twice, but all you do is show him your dumb rounded teeth until he keeps going.

You were lonely back home, and depraved, and supremely bored. You can take whatever they can dish. You have fucking _earned_ it.

He works you open, drinking in your open-mouthed groans; Sollux does not react with his whole body, the way you feel Eridan’s subtle shifts against you, but his bulges twist and the computer lapses into silence, and you feel a raw focus on you. It’s exhilarating.

“Okay,” you manage, and then Eridan is spreading you, fingers scissoring inside you with gorgeous fucking ease, hiking up your thigh and just like that your feet are off the ground. Like you’re made of paper.

You grapple at Sollux, hear the sigh of the wires shifting at the tiny strain of his body to kiss you again. And then you are cold, and then you are full—you’re so fucking full, and Eridan’s hips are pressed against your ass and all he repeats is that same “Wow” in a reverent tone.

You’re soaring. You drag your teeth along Sollux’s lip until you taste something sweet.

move.

It’s not directed at you—you’re pretty efficiently pinned—but Eridan complies, rolling his hips. Inside you, his bulge shifts and twists, and you throw back your head and gasp. Sollux lets out a low rattling kind of noise, and his own junk wraps around yours.

You might very well burst into fucking flames.

The stimulus is better than anything your desperate ass could have come up with back on Earth. Your cock pulses between his, and you do your goddamn best to get some friction going, some semblance of relief. Eridan adjusts around you, his stupidly pointy fangs plotting points over the freckles at your shoulder until he can offer Sollux his own awkwardly angled kiss.

You’re all so unbelievably tangled together, in a strange rhythm in a strange room. It’s all jumbling together with the _feel_ of the whole fucking thing, one giant mess in your mind until it decides that whiteout bliss is better.

Sollux’s bulges swell and tighten, and Eridan pounds into you with some fierce motivation you can’t quite place and you come with a messy strangled shout all over yourself.

The pressure in your ears muffles everything, but the sensation everywhere else is amplified: you feel Eridan’s climax with cutting clarity, his mouth in your hair and his hand against Sollux’s shoulder, bracing. The pilot must follow soon after, because the absolute shitshow on your pants and the floor is a sight more colourful than it was.

Behind you, like the victory ping of an arcade game, the pressure readings drop into regular range.

It makes you laugh again, weak-kneed and hoarse. Eridan’s grin is also tangible, against your temple. “I’ve been slackin.”

you are goddamn riight you have been.

You shake the daze from your eyes, attempting to set your toes back on the floor and making a face: you are aching, and it’s a goddamn mess. You are a goddamn mess. The pilot, too, holy shit.

Eridan waves a noncommittal hand, helping you back into your ruined pants like a real fucking cavalier fuckbuddy. “They’ll clean it later. Happens every time.”

“Every time,” you echo, clearing your throat until it comes back out the way you want it. “And no one questions what happens in here?”

“He told you, DK.” Sollux tips his head up the slightest bit, that stupid awful grin warming the rest of your body and probably the rest of the ship. Maybe the next planet over also experiences a surge in temperature. “That’s classified.”


End file.
